


Goes Back To Twenties

by craple



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual!Peter, Character Study, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Peter and the Sheriff are BROS, Pre-Slash, Teenage!Sheriff, The Hale Family, except he's not the Sheriff yet so we just call him JOHN, sort of, teenage!Peter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-22 06:25:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/606799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/craple/pseuds/craple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’d think a couple of dinners would fix this. It doesn’t.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Goes Back To Twenties

**Author's Note:**

> it's three am in the morning and i am writing this out of sheer boredom alone since i have been induced with caffeine and it's freaking HOLIDAY WEEK so. yeaah. hope you like some teenage peter/sheriff, slight as it is~?

First day of high school is neither an exciting or wholly frightening concept to Peter. The Hale family has been through the cycle over and over again for decades, the stories he’s heard from his parents aren’t doing their job on making his life more purposeful, turn him into a ball of nerves like his sister, Alice is.

To think that he’s going to face the crazy Econ teacher who taught his mother, or the coach of Lacrosse team who guided his father plenty years ago, is a very dull prospect.

But, a good son he is, Peter puts his parents’ happiness above all else, his family, his _pack_. Dutifully he wakes before six, takes a long cold shower to wash the sleepiness out of him, rummages through his closet for a decent shirt that doesn’t have Star Wars’ Luke Skywalker’s face on it or anything that might look nerd-ish because, appearances.

While he doesn’t really care what people think of him in general, Peter doesn’t want to be that guy who gets bullied due to his crazy man-crush on Mark Hamill.

So he slides the grey tee with the v-neck over his head – the one Aunt Trish bought him for Christmas, after peeking into his closet during Thanksgiving last year – and skips down the stairs to prepare breakfast.

He manages to cook at least two dozens of bacons, four scrambled eggs, a few vegetables and cheese and eight pieces of toasted bread before the sound of Alice’s satisfied howl echoes through the house. Peter sighs and waits as his sister, predictably, runs down the stairs without changing or showering or, anything else, really, and throws herself bodily atop one of the chairs.

“Oh god Peter, you are the absolute best,” moans Alice happily, reaching for the thoroughly buttered bacon, exactly the way she likes it. Peter slaps the back of her hand with the searing hot spatula, which makes her yelp.

“I take it back,” she hisses, licking the pink mark quickly and glares at him under her lashes. “You’re the worst brother I’ve ever had.”

Peter rolls his eyes. He has to, it’s ridiculous. “Take a shower, get dressed. In that order, then I’ll allow you to eat.” To make it better, Peter finishes the sentence with a (hopefully) cheerful smirk.

It comes out sly and his sister doesn’t like it, very much, if the growing of claws digging into the expensive wooden dining table is any indication.

“And who are you to command me, mother? I’m going to be your Alpha you know,” she says, chest puffed and chin raised, proud and happy. At least her mood has improved now, Peter thinks, with a sigh.

“No, and yes, I am very much aware of that, but I’m the one who cooked those bacons for you. So you’re eating on my terms.” He grabs a bottle of salt and flips the scrambled egg over on the frying pan, pointedly ignoring his sister glowering at his back. Peter slices through some vegetables before mixing the little pieces into the pan, along with the salt.

It is hard being the younger, responsible one of the two, Peter thinks. Alice can’t cook even if the best chief in the world is hired to teach her daily, and she probably will never understand the need to shower early or dress better if Peter hadn’t came to her aid when they were younger.

Brant strides into the kitchen, panting and sweaty in red hoodie and black jersey, just as Alice stomps upstairs, muttering curses under her breath. His brow rises immediately, questioning without saying it out loud. Peter keeps ignoring him until he sighs and settles against the counter, cold water in hand.

“Bad case of Monday?” Brant asks, casually, and Peter looks at him, horrified.

“You did _not_ just say that.” He decides, glaring at his cousin in the dirtiest way possible. Brant only laughs, taps him on the shoulder then proceeds to ruin Peter’s life by waking everyone’s up, when the food is not ready yet.

Peter curses and makes sure he overcooks three bacons and pours too much salt in one scrambled egg, placing them on the plate in front of Brant’s seat.

\--

He’d like to think that his first day goes better than Alice’s, who is already surrounded by a group of teenagers from both genders, talking happily about her last summer vacation in Hawaii.

It wasn’t even _that_ fun of a vacation. Peter’s favorite book had drenched in salt-water, Brant and Jones had gotten stuck in an enchanted cave, and Alice herself had been captured by a virgin-chaser troll _s_. Plural, as in _more than one troll_ , that would like to have a piece of her.

Frankly speaking, it was quite the _horrible_ vacation. Certainly not the worst they’ve been through. Peter can’t say he’s as excited as Alice is for their next trip to New York, where the Alpha Pack resides.

Anyway; instead of having a normal day – normal being, _not_ surrounded by groupies, although he wouldn’t mind having one to get easier access to _everything_ (and yes, in the end, he _does_ have one, consists of a couple of girls who swoon at the sight of his charming smile, and guys from both the lacrosse team _and_ the geeks) – Peter is having the weirdest day _ever_ , when Stilinski pouts at him across the table.

Honest to god _pouts_ at him. Like he’s done the most terrible thing to his pet or takes something of his.

Peter blinks twice, cocks his head to the side, then asks, “Can I help you?”

This time, Stilinski gnaws on his lower lip, a habit he can’t shake off, Peter thinks, and points at the latest issue of Hellboy in Peter’s hands.

“Just, I thought it wouldn’t come out until _next year_? And uh, the previous one before that – this _December_?” he explains awkwardly, hands waving from his sides, expression full of longing like Peter has all the gold in the world on the palm of his hands.

Peter blinks again, just to make sure this person who is late by _two years_ in the world of nerds, has a really nice body – and it _is_ ; slender, not too thin, lightly muscled in all the right slots – but doesn’t look like the jock type, handsome in a way he’s not supposed to until he reaches twenty at least, is not a hallucination.

Apparently he’s doing that thing where he stares too long at something, _someone_ that fascinates him; he’s not wired to anything other than the said object (person) itself.

Stilinski clears his throat, his cheeks flaming prettily, waves his hand at him in a gesture Peter supposes is nonchalance, fails when the flicker of disappointment flashes across his face. “You know what, never mind. I’ll just, sit right there and uh, leave you to it.”

Without thinking, Peter reaches to touch. Fingers curling around the pale thin wrist, watches as Stilinski stops in surprise.

“I have the previous issue at my house. I mean, if you want, we can hang out later, after school?” Peter says.

There’s a moment where Stilinski’s eyes widen in surprise, comically so, his face carefully blank while his eyes assess him in suspicion. Peter doesn’t think he’s ever seen a sixteen year old teenager being this suspicious of someone, so cautious, aside from his family. Hello, _werewolves_.

He tries to sniff whether Stilinski really is human and not some supernatural beings Peter has failed to notice. It would be embarrassing if he is, seeing that Peter prides himself on being the best sniffer in the family, between him and Alice at least.

The smell of bakery and pine hit him full-force, along with light tang of sweat and mint and jittery arousal. Peter tilts his head aside, lightly this time, in wonder.

Finally, Stilinski replies, “Yeah, sure.” He smiles, and it’s small and real, a bit awkward, but it’s the most endearing thing Peter has ever seen before. “Can I have your, uhh, address? And your name, possibly, cause uh, I sort of just, like, came on you without thinking?”

Peter doesn’t think so. Think that Stilinski came on him like the rest of the girls are, or think that he’s using innuendos purposefully here. He doesn’t look the type to do so, and it makes Peter laugh, sudden and real, it startles them both.

“I’m Peter,” _Hale_ , he doesn’t say, then gestures at the empty seat across him. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Stilinski smiles back. “I’m John. Nice to meet you too.”

\--

They’ve become friends after that, sort of.

John wasn’t surprised when Peter brought him to the Hale house, deep in the middle of the forest. When asked, he simply answered that he put two and two together, and it’s not like the other Peters are smart enough to recite Poe’s _The Raven_ while discussing something entirely different (Peter thinks it had something to do with _‘V For Vendetta’_ ).

Peter can’t say that he’s not impressed.

Father is the one who opens the door the second Peter’s knuckles tap the door. Mother is pulling out fresh batch of chocolate chip cookies from the oven whilst Alice mopes on the corner, clearly upset over the fact she can’t find someone she likes enough to bring home on the first day. Peter ruffles her hair in sympathy.

His parents catch on her mood quickly, as do the rest of the house inhabitants. Brant tries to get her attention by offering to play Othello with him, to no avail. Uncle Jones tells her of this new book – which _barely_ interests her; only making things _worse_ when both John _and_ Peter are interested instead – even mother goes as far as bribing her with _muffins_.

Muffins she _never_ cooks unless it’s holiday.

Peter translates this as ‘The Day Depression Finally Takes Over Alice’.

It isn’t until John shifts uncomfortably on the couch beside him, eyes sneaking glances from Alice to Peter, that Alice finally huffs. Covering what is left of her dignity, she stands up, makes a move toward the door, when John says, low and a tad bit embarrassed;

“You’re the Alice who knocks Billy down this evening right?”

Everyone perks up at that. John is oblivious as a normal human should be – Peter notices the moment they change the angles of their heads, obvious in a way badass werewolves shouldn’t. He’s a little ashamed to call them werewolves when it involves the little things – like Alice.

Warily, Alice nods her head, staring at John with big blue Bamby eyes. John flushes. He looks interestedly down at Peter’s knee.

“Just, thanks, is all. The guy he bullied – Ramsid, he’s my friend. I’m, uh, _we’re_ feeling grateful. To you. Uh.” Then he looks at Peter, with chewed lips and red cheeks and wide eyes. Peter pats his head. Can’t help it.

“My sister _is_ quite stunning, don’t you think? Especially with the batman kick,” says Peter easily.

They both beam, clearly pleased with the progress, as do the others. John listens to them talk and banter, smiling once a while and putting his own contribution to the conversation. He does listen to them both, Peter realizes.

He listens to Alice’s ramblings about her future husband (although he does look horrified at that moment), listens to Peter’s opinion about Clooney’s version of James Bond (even though they were talking about The Incredible Hulk moments before), and he pets Alice’s hair without looking disrespectful and brushes his thigh along with Peter’s without looking hopeful, intimate.

It’s nice – the way family is nice and shifting is nice. Peter can tell even his parents find Stilinski – John – is nice too.

He thinks high school won’t be so bad after all.

\--

“That girl from Biology, Red,” Peter says, sips his coffee, and studies John’s irritated face from being pulled out of his reading – library’s copy of a sodden Hellboy issue – then smiles. “You should ask her out.”

John pauses, blinks, stares at Peter as if seeing him for the first time. Peter’s smile sticks to his face.

“You want me to ask Red out.” John says, bemused.

Now it is Peter’s turn to blink, tilts his head. “Yes? I mean, she really _is_ quite pretty. And she _did_ check you out yesterday.”

John scoffs, his lips pursed in a tight line. Peter doesn’t like it. “That’s probably you.”

“She practically squealed how pretty you are in front of her friends, John. I have twenty witnesses to strengthen my case, since she screamed your name, something along the line with you helping her with chemistry?” at this, visibly winces, looking guilty.

Minutes passed, and it’s the most uncomfortable they’ve ever been since the first time they met.

Finally, John looks at Peter straight in the eye, his face a grim determination that doesn’t quite suit him, he says, “No.”

“Okay,” he manages to get out, swallowing the bile down his throat, and shrugs. “Okay.”

They never talk about it anymore.

\--

In all honesty, Red isn’t actually _that_ pretty of a girl. Everyone can say that she’s beautiful, and her boyfriend – _when_ she does have one, the probability of John being _that guy_ sinks lower than Titanic itself, presently – can say that she’s the most gorgeous girl in the world, Peter would still say Alice is much prettier than her.

He doesn’t even – okay, so he _loves_ Alice; she has her bitchy moments some times, can be really annoying when she’s lonely too, but Peter loves her to the point of death. She can betray him and feed him to the dogs and he’ll still love her, though not without leaving trails of angry curses behind.

But still, it’s the truth. Red doesn’t have Alice’s soft glossy hair; hers looks fake, too many changes, where the curls stiff and the straight part of her hair simply screams unnatural. She’s dyed it too many times too, he bets. The supposedly flaming red hair is ridiculous now, a combination between red and yellow and brown.

Peter thinks she’d look better, with her hair brown and untouched, which is a lot, coming from him.

Her face has too many make-ups. Too thick, the lipstick too _heavy_ -looking, the perfume is too strong and _goddamned awful_ , he has to stop breathing when she passes him in the hallway, or tries not to breathe at all when they’re in the same classroom.

Even John, who doesn’t have the werewolves’ noses, complains to him about it one day, though not in public, only in the vicinity of John’s Marvel-induced bedroom. Dear god, he knows Marvel has invented a lot of characters, just, not _this_ many.

“Everyone thinks I’m dating her, says it’s a matter of time,” says John absentmindedly, poking at Peter’s cheekbone with the fake monopoly money. “I don’t even like her.”

“Are you playing for the other party, then?” Peter asks, and it comes out wrong. Too eager, far too curious; he is too interested in this boy who has the face, handsome in a very masculine kind of way, who has the body of an athlete where Peter’s is still lanky and too tall, but shies away from attention, popularity, when it’s offered.

John is quiet for a long while. Peter thinks he might have broken something he can’t fix again. He’s too afraid for their friendship to end, not like this, he doesn’t want it to. Apologies and thousands of promises are already there, on the tip of his tongue, when John looks at him again.

He does that a lot these days, looking at Peter, always straight in the eye, the way wolf does to others of their rank – their equals. It’s disturbing; in a way it’s also fascinating at the same time.

“Would it bother you if I am?” the way John replies a question with another question unnerves him, since he usually doesn’t do that a lot. Peter blinks in surprise, taken aback and _glares_ at John ridiculously.

In his defense, he has never glared at _anyone_ aside his family his whole life before. Most people don’t affect him as much as his family does.

When Peter speaks, his voice is a bit shaky, furious; he’s given himself away to John without meaning to, sounding hurt and ridiculous that John would think of him that way.

“Of course not,” Peter spits out, loud and angry, probably because it stings more than it should. “How could you think of me like that?”

Instead of looking guilty or flinch, John smiles, small but bright and so, so _warm_.

He goes back to rest his head on Peter’s lap, flipping another page, and apparently they’re back to bros again now. Sort of.

“Just to satisfy your curiosity,” John says, another long moment later, looks at Peter from his place on Peter’s lap, a smile that can be categorized as _wicked_ framing his face. “I’m _playing for both_.”

\--

Peter doesn’t know why he did it – buying presents, writing love poems to a level so disgusting they could rival the most (worst) romantic novels _ever_ , hiding them in Red’s locker under John’s name – he just _did_.

It probably has something to do with the whole _‘platonic romantic dating experience’_ Brant was telling him about. Or that Alice is currently flirting non-stop with some guy who looks like a complete douche makes him curious.

He doesn’t see the appeal of, _this_. Sure, his mother says that the feeling one gets when the person you’re attracted to happy is the best feeling, and while Peter is not attracted to Red, he thinks that, at least, John would be happy when the girl beams at him like he’s the sun itself.

Rather, he looks more confused every day.

Makes him uneasy, more awkward, and he complains to Peter nearly each time Red speaks to him, though he reeks of guilt after they finish too.

This time, it’s Peter who feels uneasy.

He stops buying presents after a few weeks, stops writing letters, and prevents any further contacts immediately. It doesn’t feel good, but now he’s relieved, at least.

One day he sees Alice having her first kiss in the middle of the cafeteria, the boy she’s been flirting with getting down on one knee to ask her out. Peter doesn’t get jealous, not exactly. He’s more or less curious why the boy pushes her away after a heavy make-out session Peter is _so_ telling their Mom later, flushing, whispering that she shouldn’t do that, because he’s having a problem keeping it together.

When he pulls one of the cheerleaders away during practice, kisses her the way Aunt’s erotic novels taught him to, the girl runs back squealing and aroused; the scent of her want thick on the tip of his tongue, Peter still doesn’t get it.

\--

John finds out what he did after a pretty spectacular slap on the right side of his face, in the middle of the parking lot after school by Red. She accuses him of leading her on, being an asshole and a total douche, which he absolutely isn’t.

Peter doesn’t know what he’s thinking when he steps forward and defends John, says “It isn’t like that” to Red before dragging him off to their parked bikes.

There is no anger in John’s face when Peter starts explaining – only hurt. Mixed with confusion, and all the hurt kinds of emotions, so deep it cuts through Peter’s heart.

He doesn’t shout at Peter the way Red did; John simply rubs his cheek, the pale skin darkens to crimson underneath his fingertips, then asks him why – why would he do something like that. Peter wants to answer because he’s curious, wants to know how it feels like, but his throat constricts painfully at the moment, his tongue a dead weight in his mouth.

After another minute of silence that follows, John inhales sharply, closes his eyes and shakes his head. Something sour-smelled is coming off him in waves, spicy in the worst way possible, a stench he won’t forget later. John is clearly upset, and it’s Peter’s fault, and he doesn’t know what to do.

You’d think a couple of dinners would fix this.

But, weeks of John avoiding him at school, ignoring his calls, even as far as politely declined his mother’s invitation to family dinner he used to come with, Peter doesn’t think it would.

Grandmother says he’s full of angry these days. Angry of himself, more like, Peter thinks. He goes for run later than usual, his mind a mess of jumbled thoughts, wants to apologize but he _can’t_. It’s harder than it looks, when all he sees is John’s disappointed expression, the sour stench of his sadness filling his nostrils.

For the first time in his life, Peter doesn’t know what to do.

\--

Alice suggests he make a couple of arrangements to fancy restaurants and invite John formally, personally, to regain his trust back. Brant tells him just to go for it, which he doesn’t understand go for _what_ exactly, until Jones, flushing and awkward, explains to him.

Now Peter is the not-so-proud owner of the wide-spread knowledge of gay sex. He is not proud of his corrupted state of mind. Neither is he of what he did.

Father, being the naïve kind-hearted, apology-accepted person he is, says he just needs to say he’s sorry, quote and unquote, _‘from the bottom of his heart’_.

Peter doesn’t retch. It’s a damn close thing to do.

In the end, he seeks the most sane, most rational option, and most possibly the only person who can help him to get what he wants, in this case John’s forgiveness: John’s mother.

She pats his head and ruffles his hair, cooing “you poor thing”, all the while laughing internally at his misery. Mrs. Stilinski is one of the most beautiful women Peter has ever seen in his life, excluding his mother alone, and she is kind as she is mischievous.

Basically, she slaves him in the kitchen, tells him to do this and that, making sixteen different dishes for dinner that consists of Peter, John, and John’s parents. Mr. Stilinski is already aware of this ‘Get John to Forgive Peter for Being an Asshole’ plan, though he doubts John is. He _hopes_ John isn’t; it’s a surprise, of sorts.

Plus, John can’t exactly stay mad at his mother, if Mr. Stilinski’s word is to be trusted. At least it’s only Peter who gets the blame, all in all.

By the time he’s finished setting up the cutlery, Peter is a wrecked mess of nervousness. _The_ calm and composed, knows-it-all Peter Hale has been turned into an overeager puppy wanting to please.

Looking back, maybe Peter really has to stop chasing bunnies for breakfast, starting now. Karma really is a bitch after all.

John’s face, when he comes through the door, several books clutched in his hands, is an epitome of fond exasperation. Even though his face hardens for split second at Peter’s suddenly awkward looming figure on the corner, he stays, and sits, and doesn’t run away instantly from his own home.

They talk, and they laugh; the chatter of the Stilinskis filling the awkward spaces where neither John or Peter wants to talk, until the hour is too late, and Peter is forced to say something, or else his effort on sixteen random dishes with too much salt is going to waste.

“I caught the rabbit,” is the first thing he says. On the corner of his eyes, Peter can see Mrs. Stilinski face-palms. “Uh, and the vegetables are – well, I harvested them myself. The – the plates are your mom’s, obviously. I also bought two tickets for Star Wars’ premiere in the city’s theater. And I know this is not enough to tell you how – how _sorry_ I am, for being a horrible friend.”

John watches him, doesn’t say anything. The lump in his throat is getting heavier by every minute that passes, so Peter says, finally, “I’ve – I think I’m going to be drowned in guilt for the rest of my life, if you don’t forgive me, and. I’ve really, really missed you, so. You should – you _have_ to forgive me.” He swallows one last time then looks at John square in the eye. “Please forgive me.”

The atmosphere is so heavy it nearly suffocates him to death. Peter wants so much to look away, or go forward to grab the collar of John’s shirt and shake him till he _moves_. Says something, forgives Peter or leaves him. Either way is fine.

Actually, he prefers to be forgiven, since he _really_ does miss John. That part is sincere. And the rest of his well-formulated speech (the ruined piece of paper is still stuck in the back pocket of his jeans) is too.

John crosses his arms. He levels Peter with an unreadable look, before asking, “Why did you do it?”

This time, Peter doesn’t hesitate. “Because I’m curious. Because you know me, and you know how I get when I’m curious. I want to – I want to _know_ how it feels to like someone the way Red likes you.”

 _I want to know how it feels to like someone the way Alice likes her boyfriend, the scent of her_ want _thick in the air, staining her sheets at nights_ , he doesn’t say, although he really, really wants to.

Silence greets him. Peter is surprised to find this one more comfortable, less tense. He chances a look at Mr. and Mrs. Stilinski, both of whom he’s grateful for, since the plan miraculously works better than he can ever hope for.

Now it’s just John and him, and Peter _really_ hopes he’s forgiven; he’s currently planning several schemes to get over his boredom, most of which _definitely_ won’t involve around John any further, also cover-up plans as to not get caught.

What can he say; old habits die hard.

But, still, when John finally sighs in mock-exasperation, tells him to call his mom that he’s staying over and grins at Peter over his shoulder, Peter beams like all his wishes have come true.


End file.
